


Doc

by ChloShow



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Gen, LGBTQ Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloShow/pseuds/ChloShow
Summary: Irving and Leon get to know each other, suspending the daily grind for some true human bonding.





	Doc

_Ding!_

Leon taps the bell on the front counter of Irving’s so called Auto Square. He only taps once because he trusts the dude heard him and doesn’t want to be rushed. A soul tune—Aretha Franklin?—faintly plays from the next room, and Leon decides he can dig it. After a few moments, Irving himself emerges wearing a gray mechanic jumpsuit, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly agape.

“Business?” He questions, but Leon just shakes his head.

“Car business, man. Got my caddy into a sore spot. You said you didn’t want anyone else but you working on her.”

Irving bites his lip and decides yeah he probably did say that.

“What happened to her? Fender bender? Interior damage?” He says that last part suggestively because Irving does a lot of things but he does not reupholster bloodstains.

“She’s out front if you want a look.”

The two make their way to the gravel parking lot, and Irving notices that save for his pompadour he and Leon are the same height. Maybe if the kid didn’t wear such ridiculous clothes, he’d have more of a presence. What ever happened to a simple suit and tie?

The car’s front headlight is smashed and the grill bent, but Irving was sure there had to be more damage than that. “What’d you hit?”

“The only rock in the whole damn desert, cuz.”

“There’s a metaphor in there somewhere,” Irving squats to look at the right wheel, which is at an angle, meaning this could involve tie rods and well, it wasn’t gonna be cheap.

“What’s the opposite for, ’You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn?’”

He pulls himself up from the parking lot not wanting to put too much strain on his knees. “That’s actually an idiom.” Irving shoots a disarming smile, but his customer’s face hasn’t changed. He’s not actually sure Leon heard him until he’s crossed a few paces behind him in the direction of his store.

“Figurative language is figurative language. No sense in parsing specifics in a layman’s conversation. So, doc, tell me the damage.”

Jesus, how does anyone have a conversation with this guy? “I can give you an estimate once I put her up on the rig. Damage isn’t just cosmetic. It’s probably structural, too.”

“Damn,” Leon’s had better days, and this certainly isn’t one of them. He follows Irving back to the counter where Irving pulls out some paper work, asking for his contact info and keys.

“There’s nothing in there that shouldn’t be there, right?” He could assume the loyalty of Whiterose’s men, but if there’s one thing he couldn’t assume it was competency. Hence his own job description.

“Clean as a whistle,” Leon smirks, “That’s a simile—just for you, doc.”

Irving pulls his mug off the counter and takes a swig, which he regrets. Lukewarm coffee. He must’ve been working on that Honda for longer than he thought.

“Didn’t know you was a pop,” Leon indicates his mug, and Irving sighs, frankly too damn busy for this shit. “Didn’t figure you as the fatherly type.”

“It’s for the job.” Why was he explaining this shit? Something about Leon invited this type of conversation he decides. “Customers like it when they think they can relate to me.” It’s a kind of admission that leaves him oddly vulnerable like he’s revealing he’s not exactly the most relatable guy.

“I see. Your mug says #1 Dad, but in reality, you’re not exactly monogamous with your women,” Leon pauses, squinting, “Or whoever it is you light your candle for.”

He catches himself before he can ask, “How did you know?” Instead he just stands there with his mouth slightly agape, holding on to the kid’s keys. A stray thought wanders through his mind. _I think I see what Whiterose sees in you, kid._

“You mind if I wait in here for a Lyft?”

“Not at all. Make yourself comfortable. I’m afraid I don’t have too many magazines for you, but all you kids have your smartphones these days.”

“What about the TV?” Leon gestures to the set from the late 80s or early 90s, and Irving shakes his head.

“No good. It’s been broken about a month, and I fix cars, not TVs,” he tries his hand at a joke, and this time Leon smiles a broad smile that really lights up his whole face. That one, _that_ was a metaphor.

“Probably wouldn’t have what I want on anyways. Been watching Knight Rider.”

“Knight Rider?” Part of him says, ‘Ignore him. Get back to work.’ But another part, he supposes the writer’s part, tells him to accept this genuine moment of human connection for what it is, however strange. “That show’s gotta be older than you by at least 10 years.”

“True that. But if I ignored any masterpiece that happened to be older than me, wouldn’t I be missing out on a pantheon of human achievement?”

“Well, you got me there.”

“Once I finish Knight Rider, what would you suggest I watch next?”

“Uh,” he wracks his brains for a show people had tried to talk him into watching. Breaking Bad? Game of Thrones? “I don’t know. I don’t really watch shows like that. I more watch reality TV than anything else.”

“I see. A fan of the human condition can seek inspiration from any variety of things, reality TV shows not exempted. Tell me: are you some type of artist?”

“Now that you mention it,” he feels the ends of his lips drawing up in a smile against his will, “I’m actually writing a book.” How many people had he told this that hadn’t even asked a polite question about it?

“An author. So, are you about the recognition or the immortality?”

He never thought about this, never consciously, only on the edges of his thoughts like something he was too embarrassed to acknowledge. “I guess it’s—it’s that I want to be remembered for something. Selling cars. Yeah, sure, a customer leaves with a vehicle, but anyone could’ve sold them that. They’ll remember me just as much as they’ll remember their cashier at King Soopers. But if just one person reads my book—they can forget whoever the hell I am, but they can’t forget the message.”

“Looks like my Lyft’s here,” Leon says with an air of finality and possibly regret. Events are made more important when bound by time, and he has a feeling Irving wouldn’t be forgetting this interaction any time soon. “I gotta get to my boy. Things have probably got him pretty shaken up.” Leon extends his hand, and Irving considers the gesture hesitantly before offering his hand in turn.

“Thank you, Irving,” he holds the handshake steady as if he were securing some sort of pact, “For sharing your truth.” He keeps eye contact with Irving who isn’t sure where to look but doesn’t look away.

When Leon releases his hand, walking toward the gravel parking lot, he stops and says with a fair amount of gravity, “Make sure and call me when that book’s finished, doc. I’d love to read it if you’d let me.”

And with that, Irving thinks he may have finally figured out an  ending to his story.


End file.
